I’ve been in and out of hospitals my whole life. However, to be quite honest, that statement is both an understatement and an exaggeration. Most people go to the hospital at some point in their life, yet don’t spend more than a day there.

Other people spend weeks receiving treatment for illnesses or have to make frequent trips to receive more in-depth care than a clinic can offer. I’m right smack in the middle of those two groups.

I can probably say I’ve stayed in the hospital longer than the average healthy person, yet my visits are nothing compared to, say, a cancer patient. I have a condition called hydrocephalus. It sounds scary, but it's really just that: a condition.

It's a state of being. I will always have it -- not because it's incurable, but because the cure doesn’t eliminate the problem. It's unclear whether I was born with it or developed it, but it was diagnosed when I was around eight months old. After that initial diagnosis, I’ve spent a cumulative three months in the hospital specifically related to my condition.

In addition to those hospital visits to deal with the actual condition, my hydrocephalus forced me to live cautiously. Possibility for problems is high in children with hydrocephalus: our bodies are growing, our skulls are fusing, and our sense of personal preservation is lacking. That combination can land children in the hospital for more mitigation. While the first two situations are natural and unavoidable, the last factor is completely dependent on the child.

I was taught from a young age to avoid unnecessary risks, in order to avoid complications. I was not allowed to play contact sports, which limited a lot of possibilities. While children played basketball during physical education, I sat on the sidelines. In addition to the physical education sports, I also couldn’t play after-school sports.

Despite this caution, I found myself in the hospital for weeks during the summer in between second and third grade for issues related to my hydrocephalus. After that, even doing the monkey bars freaked me out. In the grand scheme of things, the possibility of going to the hospital again was not worth the trouble of a recess activity. I believe this is what caused me, at a young age, to develop the beginning symptoms of hypochondria. Or, as my aunt likes to say, “I became in tune with my body.”

Fast forward to today. I am one of the most paranoid people I know, but especially when it comes to my body. Every tiny ailment or injury must be diagnosed and treated, or else I go crazy with anxiety. I am a college freshman and I still call my mother or aunt every time something seems amiss. For the most part, this doesn’t cause me any harm.

My intuition is usually correct, and I work to find a solution. Yet sometimes the problem, solution, or both, is unclear. It’s at that point that the hypochondria shifts from harmless to problematic. As I write this article, I am dealing with a headache. Most people would say it’s just that, and go on with their lives. But I have to distinguish the root of the problem. In my eyes, everything has a cause -- nothing happens without a reason.

I begin thinking the worst case scenario, even with just a headache. But then again, “just a headache” can be a sign of serious issues for me. So maybe I have a right to worry. Or maybe I worry way too much. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

The reality of the situation is that, number one, the body works in mysterious ways, and number two, I am not a licensed medical professional. My wild speculations will remain just that. So for the time being, I will live proudly with my hypochondria and general paranoia. It’s kept me alive this long.